I have never set my heart to writing odysseys from within. It always has been stories, figments of what I consider my imagination, creations of my fertile intermittent bouts of creativity. Today, I woke up, it was no different, I looked at my screen and a story arose, but midline I stopped, my hands floated over the keyboard for a moment in pause, and I pressed backspace. I started over, started over for good. And in the spirit of starting over, I started this piece.
Been listening to countless songs over the week. I have never been a fan of modern music, but they have taught me how to think like the modernist I am supposed to be. Florida, Bebe Rexha? Best song I have had to start my year. I hope I am singing the song to you as I write this, but you and? You and I are like the guys making cream at the end of the road. They breathe hot and cold, just like we do. They live in the hope that one will make the first move, be a little aggressive in buying their stock, they pray that something big happens and they get suddenly rich, like I do. But hope is not a forte for sinking the despairs of my heart, is it? So I will be real, just a little real, the real between hilarious and savagery which I have been accused of for the last week. The plain real.
The pain is real, all real, when I write, and I have to dedicate it to no one because I can’t tell you it was all about you, it’s real. Sometimes I am just walking, looking at people, feeling their vibe, listening to the bubble of happiness’ that flows beneath every of their conversations, the one that seeks to blow up and bloom any moment, and I have to imagine that was us, just for a moment I would love to exchange them for me and you, but it’s not possible, is it? We are from two sides of the divide, and it’s not every day that a classic case of Romeo and Juliet happens on earth, because you are the Juliet, a typical one, but I, I want to make myself believe that am no Romeo, in fact I should not break the rules of survival.
In fact this whole piece spells like travails, a woeful tale of thinking without acting, of hoping without really hoping. The smile you give me, they are treasured, like my mum`s old watch. The little chats, the ones that never really seem to be going anywhere, they are the best moments I had to hold, but whence I remember that a dozen of guys desire you as I do, I just have to hug myself a little tighter, sigh a little and go back to my books. Because without you, and them, I would have no point to hold my head high.
The last week has been tough, really tough. I have had to face the reality of my life, but I wouldn’t tell you about them. Quoting your words `everything you do is fun`, it is, really is. Sometimes I despaired, came crashing down and I had no one to talk to, because you all think am the strongest. Sometimes I hoped someone would hug me, someone like you, someone who would smile and wish away my tears, but there was none, you were not there, I was not there. So I sunk myself into my world, my books and my world. I read and read, late nights and early mornings. To be honest I have not slept the week. And it felt something like success; smelt like it too, I had found something that would make me ignore you. But at the end, when I sat, twirling my watch, snapping my fingers when I was done with my exams, I saw it was all zilch. Vanity.
And it’s February. I might be suffering from the valentine syndrome. When everyone seems to be going out and getting gifts. When everyone I know seems to be love, and to be loved back. When all I have on my phone is `my love` and WCWs.it pains me, yes it does, but it doesn’t anymore. When I was broken, when all I had was school and home, when I looked at my phone to text you but couldn’t get the energy to break the resolve not to, some bird told me to give it another try. Someone told me to stop being a `prick` and open my eyes to the world. So I am taking a pause from my world and be real, tell you as I feel, but is it real? Is the feeling real, I hope so?
They told me I shouldn’t write too long, it’s been 800 words and counting. But somehow am feeling like it’s not enough for such deep thoughts. Looking up, scrolling back through the text of my deluge, I feel inadequate, confused with what am saying. Somehow I have not said what I meant to say; somehow I have missed the whole point. Am choosing whether to let it go, my fingers are floating over delete, again. But it’s not because I think this piece is all bad, it’s because I fear. Like broken promises I cannot redo the damage once I start this. But this, this might sum all of it up, in only but a few words.
The heart lies, to itself,
It’s all broken, and confused,
But it beats, still, and blood flows,
It pumps, makes and breaks the circle,
Lest we forget.
I hoped and lost, but it didn’t drain me,
My legs will move, my time will tick,
I will tell myself ‘am ok`,
I will sigh, look back and move on,
Because that is the way of life,
But we can’t lie to ourselves,
Lest we forget.
Its dark, this life, the living,
It’s at night, am stumbling in the dark,
But if I think of you, us, the moon peeps out,
And I have a glimpse of light, the clouds give away,
The gloom rolls by, to remind, that I can’t,
I can’t forget the light, your light
Lest I forget the day.
DEDICATED TO ONE S.G.W
My fountain has dried up; I have said a lot, I ought to have said more, I can’t. I am sorry, this might never reach you, like a package it might never be opened, but I left my story unfinished, the other story that is. I might never be able to complete it if I don’t stop now. But this, mi amore, this is the story of my life, the eternal story of my hopes. Your story lest we forget.